The Real McCoy
by JCRobin
Summary: Hank McCoy's relaxing night off goes sour when a student has a question that just can't be ignored. One-shot.


This story idea came to me out of the blue (pardon the pun) one night and I wondered "...Why hasn't anyone written this yet?" And now...I don't have to wonder anymore. I hope you enjoy it.

I'd like to dedicate this story to both Cherie and Nique, the biggest Hank McCoy fans known to man.

Special thanks goes out to:

-My sister for being the first set of eyes on this fic and helping me tough out the rougher spots.

-Nique, for her unending support and enthusiasm for this project. Also, for basically coming up with the end of this fic ;)

-And Cherie, for being my chief editor and my inspiration. Thank you for helping shape yet another Hank (Evo Hank) and keeping me both humble and reminding me that I am NOT a weabo despite my ignorance of sports, Guinness, and, apparently, the correct spelling of Sherlock Holmes.

I do not own X-Men or ANYTHING but the words in this document and I receive no royalties from its e-publication.

The Real McCoy

Around the Xavier Institute, Wednesday was known as the day when the Mutant God of Chaos rested. It wasn't on Sunday which is the day most omnipotent beings kick back and take it easy. No, smack in the middle of the week was a far better choice. Sunday is still a weekend day and any teenage mutant worth his weight in mischief wouldn't waste a second of daylight missing out on prime time shenanigans. After all, as the saying goes: you snooze, you lose.

Luckily, Sunday was still three days, five hours, and twenty-seven (make that twenty-six) minutes away. Or at least by Professor Hank McCoy's count. Today was the fabled Wednesday and, on this day, the wildest outbursts the students could muster cropped up in sporadic squabbles over what to watch on television. The girls had their reality fashion dramas and the boys their fight-based stunt programs. Both shows were practically identical with the only true difference being the amount of sling-back sandals or neck braces in either.

In his office, (for Hank slyly coincided his day off with that of the Mutant God) Hank could scarcely hear the shrill squawks of the girls against the low guttural brays of the boys. He shook his head thinking how poor, gentle Ms. Monroe would be forced to intervene in a matter of minutes. He felt bad, but not bad enough. Tonight was "Beast" Night.

The codename, at first, had been accepted with a great deal of hemming and hawing on his part. Being dubbed what he had been trying for years to escape seemed a step in the wrong direction. But, as he'd had quite a few Wednesday nights to muse on it, the title grew on him with the same astounding ferocity as the mutation which had over taken his body almost a year ago. To be "Beast" was to be himself, to unleash an honest part of who he was. As Samuel Johnson once said: "He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being man."

And, so, Hank had started "Beast" night; his own private homage to the animal that paced restlessly during the long overhaul between Wednesday nights. These nights sometimes, but not always, consisted of him roaming the streets in nothing but tight black underoos or swinging like a great blue orangutan through the New England jungles that shot up behind the mansion. Often, though, it was simply a matter of putting away the books and beakers, kicking up his opposable thumbed feet, having a cold Guinness Stout (he committed the Celtic sacrilege of chilling them first), and indulging in such mindless male delights as "The Three Stooges", "Sports Illustrated", and the ever-loving perfect cut of prime steak. This particular evening was following due course.

With a Heineken (they were out of Guinness Stout) in one hand and another can awaiting sentencing in his foot, Hank pulled on his head phones and set his iPod to "stun". The gentle hiss at the beginning of the track indicated the start of Led Zeppelin's "Immigrant's Song" which drummed to life in his ears, mercifully drowning out any escalating commotion echoing down from the rec room. He grinned nodding his head along with the music. First up on the evening's docket: attempting to rearrange his ever failing fantasy football team. If Petroza let him down one more time he would be forced to banish him back to Internet oblivion. Underdog or no, Petroza was just not pulling his weight.

Hank took a long, gratifying gulp of the Heineken and set it off, completed to the side. Another three cases of this stuff and he might actually get a buzz, he thought with some mild amusement. He grabbed up the other can from his foot and let the now free appendage start its rummage for another beer.

A gentle cough.

He began to bob his head a little harder as Robert Plant whipped himself into a frenzy, conjuring a heavy metal maelstrom that would've done ol' Leif the Lucky proud. "Ahhh ahh AHHH ahhh." Hank let out an agreeable growl, clicking through to see who he could trade for on the Cowboy's team.

A less subtle cough.

But Petroza still had some heart left in him. Maybe one more try…

"Uh, Mr. McCoy?"

Hank jerked his head up. The ever hunched form of Kurt Wagner stood mildly in his doorway, one hand resting on the wood paneling as if to say "I did knock…"

"Kurt!" He fumbled to turn the iPod down to a tolerable level and pull the earphones off his head, "I'm…sorry I was a bit involved. What can I do for you?"

"Sorry to bother you, Mr. McCoy…" The teenager mumbled, lingering half in the hall.

"No, no, no, not at all! Come in, please. Sit down."

Kurt obediently slipped into the room. His tail flowed behind him like a serpent swimming across the surface of a still lake; swaying back and forth in time with his steps. He hesitated at the chair across from Hank McCoy's desk. With a nod from his teacher, Kurt crouched down in a chair, his toes clutching and unclutching the edge of the seat.

"So, how are you?"

"Oh, I'm fine. Just fine." He murmured, his eyes shifting under his brow, looking carefully around the room. Hank leaned forward.

"Something you want to talk about, maybe? Your abilities? Mansion life? School? Or, did you just drop by to make sure I wasn't blasting out my eardrums?"

Kurt didn't even perk up at his attempt at humor, "School, actually. I wanted to ask you about high school."

"Alright, Kurt, ask away. Though, at this point, you'd probably know more on the subject than I would."

"It's about your high school days."

"Really?" Hank tried to meet his eyes, read what he was thinking. The teenager's gaze was steadfast on the Newton's Cradle that sat lifelessly on his desk. Hank leaned back in his chair, the slow squeak filling the empty office, "Well, what do you want to know? High school was a long four years, a very long time ago. You're going to have to be a bit more specific."

"You were…popular, right?"

"I guess you could say that. My teachers liked me and my coaches. My teammates too although, certainly—"

"And the girls?"

Hank quirked one of his Grecian eyebrows, renewing the creases in his short forehead, "Well, yes, the girls too," He leaned further across his desk, "Kurt," The boy met his eyes, "This isn't going to be that talk is it?"

Kurt's calm, almost carefully uninterested expression fell off his face so hard that Hank almost heard it clatter on the ground. The boy's cheeks burst into a deep plum that spread down his neck and to the very tips of his ears. "No! No! Definitely not! I know about that! Ach, well, not all about it! Well, you know what I mean!"

A wild, rolling boom echoed from Professor McCoy's throat, his laughter filling up every crack in the room. He didn't approve of laughing at his students, even when they, say, slipped on their own ice trails, but "Laughter is the shortest distance between two people" as Victor Borge had once said. A smile slowly replaced the blush on Kurt's face and his own impish laugh peppered the air under Hank's dull thunder.

"All right, all right. I believe you." He smiled, "But, this is about a girl at school is that right?"

"No, no," Kurt shook his head gently, "Well, it kind of is. It's more…" He sighed with frustration. Two of a trio of fingers plucked back the end ball of the Newton's cradle and let it go, starting the metronomish tick in the dead air, "Look, do you mind if this gets a little personal?"

"Oh, no not at all, Kurt. I've been through a lot of the same things you're going through now. Whatever you share in this room remains in this room." Which, Hank knew, was, or at least had the potential to be, a damn lie. If the kid had come in to confess some deep need of self mutilation or premeditated malice toward his fellow students, Hank was obligated to tell but, as the conversation hardly seemed headed in that direction, he let that little tidbit of information dissipate into obscurity.

"No, not personal to me…well…yes but…personal to you."

Hank arched his eyebrows again, "Well, you certainly know how to pique curiosity, Kurt," He thought a moment, "All right, I will tentatively answer 'yes' to that but I reserve the right to be overly vague."

"Fair enough." Kurt said, "I wanted…I was curious if you were…well…active in high school. With….with the girls. You know what I mean." The boy's face was blossoming purple again as he spoke, his eyes obsessively fastened onto the Newton's Cradle as though it held the secrets of the universe in its perfectly counterbalanced form.

"Well, let's just shut the office door before we head down this particular path of conversation, shall we?"

The teenager leapt up from his seat and bolted to the door, shutting it and, then, locking it for good measure. He was back in his seat as fast as if he had teleported, his eyes now locked on his professor's.

Hank let out a sigh.

"Perhaps it wasn't the smartest thing at that particular age but, yes, I was active. I certainly wouldn't suggest it to you. I was quite safety conscious, but—"

"Just with one girl or more than one?" Kurt interjected.

"Well...I was always in a relationship when I was 'active' as you put it. But, again, it's really a matter of personal feeling an--"

"Nobody random or a girl you weren't sure about? Not ever?"

"No. Not at all. I'm not--"

"You're certain about that? I mean any little time would--"

"Yes, I'm positive!" He blurted out. The Newton's Cradle clicked. His toes itched for a Heineken. He cleared his throat. "Kurt, I can't say this line of questioning doesn't concern me. Is there something you may have done that you might need to talk about, here?"

"What about your girlfriends? They were always--"

"Kurt," he lowered his voice, "what is this about really?"

Kurt's eyes met his, wide and wild; a startling contrast from his demeanor when he'd first shuffled into his office. Finally, Kurt's shoulders slumped and he leaned back. "Mr. McCoy…"

"I'm listening, Kurt." His eyes tried to scan the face in front of him, trying to match a purpose to the wandering eyes. My God he's killed a hooker. Hank thought, hoping that Charles or Jean weren't cruising by his cerebellum at that point. Killed her or gotten her pregnant one of the two or maybe both. God that's just the kind of scandal this school needs. Good lord, I can see the headlines now: Demon Kills Succubus: Mutant Manor Murders...No, that's far too clever for the Bayville Gazette...Maybe the Post could come up with--

"Mr. McCoy, I think you're my father."

The Newton's cradle clicked once and then twice. "…What?"

"My father. I think…you're…my father."

Hank's mouth dropped open, perhaps hoping to respond in some witty or at least mildly intelligent manner but even his breath was having a hard time getting through his rapidly tightening windpipe.

Finally, he managed a rather profound, "What?"

"My father!" Kurt blurted out again, "It just makes sense!" He launched to his feet, his fidgeting, twitching nerves clearly no longer able to be contained by a mere mortal office chair, "We have so much in common! I'm not as dark as Mystique but not as light as you, I'm right in between. I have her eyes, but your fangs, fur, and your hair too! See?" He held out a lock on his head as undeniable proof before letting it flop down and continuing on his one man tirade. The boy had begun pacing like a teenage Sherlock Holmes, his tail whipping as though furiously sawing out a melody on an invisible violin, "I have to run on all fours and you do too! You've got big hands and feet and so do I! All those parts Mystique is missing, you have them! It--"

"Now hold on right there, Kurt! I'm sorry, I really am but I am not your father! I never even knew Mystique until I joined the institute let alone had any form of relationship with her!"

"How do you know? She's a shapeshifter! She could've--"

"But why, Kurt? Why would she even attempt something like what you're suggesting? It makes no sense."

"To us! This is Mystique we're talking about! Nothing she does makes sense!"

"Okay, okay let's calm down a moment." Hank leaned back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. Kurt, no less excited, kept his mouth shut. "I understand your thought process but the likelihood is just…simply not there. Nobody knew I was a mutant back then. Heck, even I didn't know until I was in my senior year. And if Mystique did happen to be in Bayville at the time and, say, going to school with me, what exactly could she hope to gain by having a child with, what she must've believed, was a normal high school quarter back?,"

Kurt shrugged, "I'm not saying it makes sense, Mr. McCoy. I'm just saying that, physically, our relation is obvious. The hair, the fur, the fangs! As long as I've been alive, I've never seen or heard of another blue mutant besides you and Mystique. She's my mother…so for us, there has to be a connection!"

"There doesn't have to be anything, Kurt. A lot of mutants develop similar powers that have nothing to do with one another."

"Not like this."

"All right, let's treat it like a scientific inquiry." He steepled his fingers, "Kurt, did you know that Cannonball has a brother who's powers are strikingly similar to Angel's?" Kurt shook his head. "They're practically identical, especially the physical mutation, and they're not related in the least."

"But that doesn't mean we're not."

"That's very true. But, by your logic, Warren would be Jay's father, right? I'm certain Jay has never seen another person with wings before, just like you've never seen another blue mutant unrelated to you before. So, then they must be related, is that true?"

"Oh...well...no, but, that's different. Angel's not like Mystique..."

"Another good point. So, let's take it apart. What you're suggesting is that Mystique had, basically, transformed into one of my girlfriends just to have my child but, never tell me about him or use him as leverage against me. She would've taken him to Germany and never brought him up again. Now, just listen to that. How does that sound to you? To me it sounds like a shaky theory,"

"Yeah…I guess it is." He sat back down in his chair. "We're just so much alike…I…" His face began to flood purple again, creeping up towards his ears. The Newton's Cradle had long since stopped leaving the air as dense as a concrete block. Then, Kurt started to laugh, "I guess I was just being stupid. Wow, it sounds really dumb now. I'm sorry to take up your time, Mr. McCoy. I…I hope you don't think less of me…"

"No, no! Never, Kurt. It was a good thought, I can see why you might think what you did. Now you can see why it's always important to follow a hypothesis to its conclusion."

"Yeah, no, I see." The boy's large three-fingered hand pushed a bang away from his face, smiling brightly. "I should probably go back to my room. I have some homework I should be getting back to. Sorry to waste your time." He smiled a little wider, and before Hank could protest the idea of Kurt doing any more musings for the night, the teenager was gone in an explosion of purple smoke and the burning stink of hellfire.

He shook his head, waving a hand in an attempt to dissipate the stench. Kurt had certainly posed an amusing theory. A son. He had always wanted a son. Someone to guide down the path of maturity, to teach, to love. Perhaps, even follow in his dexterous footsteps towards the star quarter back position Hank might have relished had his passion for teaching not burned a brighter flame. But those days were always set in the vividly colored backdrop of the future, where a beautiful, brilliant wife greeted him amorously at the end of the day with a cold beer and an eager need to watch the Steelers vs Packers game.

Hank sat down at his desk again, Petroza's stats having disappeared in favor of the classic imagery of flying toasters. They darted diagonally down his screen, corralling a herd of burnt bread to some unknown destination. He cracked open the Heineken that had been waiting for him, taking a fresh gulp of the warming beverage.

But, of course, the idea of him having a son at this point was simply nonsense. Certainly, Kurt's deductions about their physical similarities were dead on. They did share many of the same traits; more than Hank had really stopped to consider. But, as he had said, that was no doubt coincidence. Just like Jay and Warren. Although, Jay and Warren didn't quite match up on as many levels as he and Kurt did. Still, that meant very little. The suspicion that Mystique would pull such a pointless and invasive stunt was simply unbelievable. Where was the gain? For Mystique, there always had to be a gain. And, although he jokingly liked to think this was the case, sleeping with Hank McCoy was hardly a lasting success.

Hank placed the headphones back onto his pointed (like Kurt's) ears. His iPod's playlist had long since bid Robert Plant's tribute to the Viking world a fond so long and jumped nineteen years into the future where the salty vocals of Alice Cooper belted out the lyrics to "Poison". Hank bobbed his head along half-heartedly, licking the Heineken residue off his lips.

Mystique always had a reason. There was no reason for her to try something like that. She couldn't've known he was a mutant. That was impossible. He didn't even know and, when he did, he kept it as quiet as possible. Though he had been sloppy on occasion. Showing off for the cheerleaders or over exerting in front of his teammates to win some oh-so-important bet. Could she have seen him? Decided she wanted to spawn a mutant child with him? No, that was ridiculous. To think, he went to school with Mystique? That was ridiculous. But…there was that night his old flame, Sandra, had been acting so strangely. And that time Dana had been so forceful. Lord, any number of nights he had drunkenly perused the girls at high school parties, Simon egging him on, could've easily churned up any number of, since, blacked out possibilities.

"No, no, no!" He said aloud, pushing back from his desk, the force rattling his Newton's cradle into a racket of clacking metal balls. "It is beyond unlikely! The very thought balances on the brink of paranoia! It's simply not feasible." His office offered no resistance to the idea, content merely to devour the cry as if whether or not one mutant was another's child deserved no more thought than a victorious whooping over the success of his fantasy football team. Alice Cooper continued on, crazed by the very poison he was trying so hard to condemn. The flying toasters had their itineraries to fulfill. The Heinekens were warming. Hank bit his lip, drumming his hand once on the desk top, "Well, as long as we're clear on the subject…" He leaned back letting out a dry cough, catching it with an over-sized (You've got big hands…so do I!) fist.

"Oh, for heaven's sake…" It was nonsense, pure and utter nonsense. There was no science in this theory. No logic. Just assumptions. Just musings. Curiosities. To even consider acting upon it was idiotic. A pure waste of time and hope. Even if the slightest possibility of them being related existed, was it really worth dragging them through the torture of knowing that Kurt had been conceived through trickery and that Hank was, for all intents and purposes, raped? They could both do without that thought. Ignorance was bliss after all and tonight was the Beast's night. Another day Hank McCoy could question the improbability of the two of them being father and son. Another day he could deal with the possible horror of that realization. Another day.

*

At 12:01am Thursday morning, there was a knock on Kurt Wagner's door. A few scuffling steps later, Kurt's face took the place of the door and adopted an almost comical image. Surely, he had been expecting Bobby Drake with a half-thought-out scheme to incorporate strip poker into the Institute's curriculum or a nervous Kitty Pryde with two cups of warm cocoa and the start of a deep conversation on the tip of her tongue. Not the large, apologetic figure of Hank McCoy hulking in the hallway's dim light.

"Mr. McCoy? Is…is everything okay?"

"Oh, yes, yes, of course, everything is fine. I apologize for the late night interruption Kurt it's just…that…I've been doing some thinking and I came to the conclusion that I was simply far too dismissive with you earlier."

"No, its fine Mr. McCoy." He said. He crossed his arms and leaned against the door frame, "I didn't think the whole thing through. Sometimes I just get caught up in an idea and I can't—"

"No, no, it was an interesting theory and I just wasn't keeping an open mind. If you're still interested, we have the equipment to find out for sure."

He stared a moment, unmoving, "Uh...yeah. Sure! I'd…that would be great!"

"Purely, to nip this in the bud, of course. You and I both know there's a very slim chance the results might yield positively."

"Yeah, yeah, no, definitely. Just for fun." He smiled widely, his fangs gleaming in the low lighting. "The lab?"

"Yes," He smiled uneasily, his own fangs just larger versions of Kurt's. "But again, don't feel disappointed. We both know this is just to settle an upset mind."

"Right." He nodded.

The trip down the eerily empty corridors of Charles Xavier's school was made in an uncomfortable silence. Hank walked softly, the gentle drag of his fur covered (like Kurt's) knuckles scraping gently across the plush carpet. With everyone asleep in the usually uproarious mansion, the two seemed ethereal. Ghostly beings spirited down the vacant corridors, restless in all meanings of the word. Hank hunched his shoulders against the thought. The situation was chilling enough and it certainly wouldn't help to think of them as phantoms in the night like some bad version of The Shining.

Hank McCoy's lab had been granted to him as one of his conditions for joining the institute. There hadn't been all that many places he could go at the time of his induction but it made him feel better to think he had at least made a few demands. Prior to the lab's creation, the room had been a storage facility with less than proper decorum. The entire overhead was interlaced with piping that was just sturdy enough to hold, a couple hundred pounds of muscled ape-man. Though it wasn't exactly attractive, it certainly saved him money on chairs. Below the piping, were six steel tables in various stages of project completion, none of those stages actually being "Completed". The rest of the lab was mostly filing cabinets, bookshelves, and various outdated or unassembled equipment Hank had been either "meaning to get rid of" or "getting to next week" respectively. The door to the room, which had been marked "Dr. Cornelius" from the outside, was heavy, thick, and currently propped open by his probably son. He only hesitated a moment before waltzing in with the pride of theprivileged . Hank very rarely let students in the lab. Hank liked his science out of the hands of klutzy new recruits or the ever curious older students who still had a knack for finding themselves in the wrong situation.

"Well, come on, Kurt, let's get this over with." Hank insisted, his nonchalant tone perhaps a tad overdone. Kurt nodded. To his chagrin, Hank realized that, although the overhead jungle gym was a wonderful perch for himself, there was not a single seat in the house so to speak. He gave Kurt a wry smile, "Well, I'd ask you to take a seat but it appears that I haven't one to spare."

Kurt shrugged, "Its okay. Whenever I can't find a seat, I just make one." He walked over to the wall leaned his back and bottom against it. Tucking his feet up under himself, flat against the wall, he was, in fact, seated. "Tadaa!" He held out his arms to indicate a fantastic trick and, of course, invite the inevitable applause. Hank chuckled.

"Very clever." Though even as he said it he knew he'd done the same thing a thousand times before. "All right, on with the show then." The drawer with the needles was in table four. That was the table he had his "Weird Science" project. It was his own tampering with synthetically created mutation. Not that he wanted to create a super army or anything but simply for the sake of science of course. That particular project he rather enjoyed keeping unfinished, less he somehow discover through his work that, God forbid, he was the one responsible for his own physical state. He shuddered to think. The drawer slid open with a dramatic scrape and he selected a syringe from his modest collection. Kurt frowned.

"You don't have my DNA on record or something?" Kurt asked with a smile, "I mean, I really already had my physical this month."

"Sorry, Kurt, it's against institute policy for all non-vampiric staff to keep the blood of students in vials around the lab. But don't worry, I'm only taking a small amount. A pin prick, I promise."

"Right," Kurt sighed holding out an arm, "Just don't hit an artery or anything."

"If you insist." Hank gently took a hold of Kurt's arm facing his palm up. The vein was difficult to find at first; too much fur in the way and trying to find a blue vein on blue skin was even harder. Kurt took the opportunity to jokingly insist that the vein simply must not be there and that he would be more than happy to sacrifice a cheek swab. Luckily, the vein materialized and Hank slipped the needle in with no more announcement than a quick "There we are."

Despite his reluctance, Kurt took the invasion in rather well. The plunger drawn back, the barrel full, he retracted the needle, tossing a wad of gauze on top of the vein. "Put pressure on the wound and hold your arm up." He instructed automatically. Hank didn't bother to see if Kurt followed orders, hurrying to place the sample in the testing machine, on table one: the home of the "Why Me?" project.

The primary focus of the "Why Me?" project sat on the very center of the table; charts, pens, and test tubes radiating out from it like seats around an arena stage. Hank had never liked the idea of naming things in series of codes or numbers so, although the machine's packaging had read "Series 117HB" he preferred to think of it as "Faust". He'd named it partially for it's involvement in the "Why Me?" project but also because he had a devil of a time working the damn thing and because it dealt with blood, which is what Dr. Faust had signed his life away with.

The machine itself was not meant to test paternity although that was a side effect of its function. Its actual purpose was meant to find the commonalities and differences between mutations and what alleles affected their development within the body. In layman's terms: "Why me?" The idea was that the program would be able to isolate the causes behind certain mutations like Scott's eye beams and Rogue's tactile absorption with the hopes that it might hold some clue as to their control issues. So far, the results had been unhelpful other than to say that Scott and Rogue were not brother and sister and that the white streak in Rogue's hair was a part of her mutation and not just a teenager's cry for attention (which had been something that Hank had always wondered about but had thought better than to ask).

He lifted Faust's cover and slid the barrel into the "A" chamber. He had numerous samples of his own blood, refrigerated for analysis and comparison to other mutants. Not for curing. Never again. He still wasn't entirely sure if his experimentation had caused his physical mutation or if it had just been an evolutionary leap; the explosion simply the catalyst for change.

Hank grinned at Kurt as he slid a vial of his own blood into chamber "B". The teenager smiled back uneasily. "Well," He sighed and shut the lid, "here goes nothing." His finger depressed the button in a quick motion. Faust whirled to life, groaning and then whipping up into a high pitched whine. "By the power of truth, I, while living, have conquered the universe". Surely the great lawyer, doctor, spiritualist that was "Faust" would be able to find their answer.

Kurt cleared his throat softly, "How long does it take?"

"Not long," He stared down at the machine, "in a normal lab, these things are usually backed up for days but, that's the beauty of having a 'do it yourself' kit. So, I would think about a half an hour."

"Oh, that's good then…"

"Oh, yes. Absolutely."

The florescent bulbs overhead hummed along with Faust's tune. Kurt and Hank's breathing was next most audible, an occasional cough or shift of clothing piercing the air under the blanket of buzzing. Kurt was tucked up on the wall, his eyes landing anywhere but within a two foot radius of Hank McCoy. Hank stood dumbly in the middle of the room. This seemed a bit ridiculous. As father and son, were that the case, shouldn't they start their relationship off bonding? An uncomfortable silence in the face of possibility was hardly the right foot to start off on.

Hank cleared his throat, "School is going well…?"

The teen refused to look at him, preening his tail the new focus, "Ja."

"That's good."

Faust whirred.

The lights hummed.

"Let me know if you need help in anything,"

Kurt nodded, still plucking at the fur on his tail.

Hank coughed.

Fruitless. This wasn't the best time but then again, they would be having tough conversations like this from now until Hank ended up in his grave. If the machine printed out a positive report of course. The idea was like Petroza, unlikely, improbable, unreliable…but still in the fantasy.

Good God, would he be expected at parent-teacher conferences? Or what about the years of birthday gifts and Christmas celebrations he wasn't there for? Not that it was his fault. If he knew he had a son…well...would he really have given up his dreams of college and teaching? Hank was ashamed of himself but he honestly questioned it. He assumed "Hank McCoy the Father" would be an eventuality one day, not a thirty minute process.

Would the two of them be hunting down Mystique together? Hank wouldn't call himself the vengeful type but, damn it, if he wouldn't want to break her in half for this. Hell, it seemed that everyone was related to Kurt. He'd have to have Faust check the entire Institute at this rate and half the brotherhood boys just to be sure.

Kurt seemed equally as distracted. His wandering fingers were now plucking at his toes, a task that would surely be short-lived given the lack of digits. Wasn't there a bit of Hank, more than just the blue fur? Wasn't that his eye shape under Kurt's brow? And his nose. That wasn't the strong Irish nose Hank had inherited from his father but it certainly had the hint of Edna's Scottish side. And if the bone structure wasn't dead on…

Oh dear God.

That was his son.

Sweet Jesus, he had a child.

His eyes met Kurt's. Pale yellow eyes set in a dark face. Maybe Hank's unwavering study of his facial features had forced him to take notice or just the lack of movement. Kurt must know it too now. At least if he could read Hank as well as Hank could read him.

"Mr. McCoy…" Kurt started when a loud beep interrupted him. Faust was slowing to a stop. Hank turned his back to Kurt, heading to the machine. He didn't need to see the results to know the truth. To know the time he would have to make up for with Kurt. But his scientific mind refused to let go. It was always, "don't get carried away, McCoy." and "Just be sure, McCoy.", "don't lose your composure in front of the boy."

They were vikings in uncharted waters here. Ahh ah ahhhh ah.

He made his way to the machine, the lights the only thing still making noise as both Faust and all breathing had stopped. He pulled the cards from the machine. Card "A" and card "B". His eyes scanned the cards, lining up the markers, matching the data on one to the data on the other. He read over the cards three or four times, just to be sure. No mistakes. Kurt's presence blossomed up behind him, the teenager's face attempting to peep through the window of Hank's head and shoulder.

"What does it say…?" He whispered, as though too much volume would scare the answer away, "Are we--"

"No." Hank said, feeling foolish in the face of truth, "Rest assured, I am not your father," He smiled. The pressure flew from his shoulders. He was lost there for a moment. No, they were no more related than he and Evan. There was no rape, no questions, no illegitimate son to forge a relationship with. Just a teacher and a student, in a lab, solving a question. The scientific method. He turned to Kurt, holding the cards for him to see, "I have to say I was honestly beginning to belie…"

Kurt wasn't looking at the cards. His head was turned away; his mouth was a tight thin line. As Hank started piping up, the image on Kurt's face was immediately replaced with an obnoxiously wide grin.

"Yeah! No, I was too! Well, at least that's cleared up! Thank you Mr. McCoy!" A noise like a great inhaling of breath followed by a pop of smoke filled the lab and he was gone in the most dramatic everyday exit Hank had ever become accustomed to. He was left in the lab with the cards in his hands. Stupid, McCoy.

He had always had his father growing up. His mother too. He'd never known what it was like to not know who his parents were or to wonder why they hadn't wanted him. He'd never known what it was like to have a mother to be ashamed of or a family tree that was more shade than fact. With a mother like his, it must've been nice to have a father he at least knew and was a slight bit more reputable. Better the devil you know…

Stupid McCoy.

*

Another knock came at Kurt Wagner's door. This time, there were no plodding steps but a muffled, "Yes?" Hank introduced himself again and, after a moment, Kurt agreed to let him in.

Hank pushed open the door, the room was dark though this was no surprise at two in the morning. Kurt was sitting on the bed, the block of light highlighting his form. He rubbed his eyes as though he had been awakened from a deep sleep.

"Mr. McCoy, I'm really sorry about wast--"

"Kurt. Let me speak with you for a second,"

Kurt bit his lip but said no more.

"We're not related and I'm…I'm sorry about that. Really. I may not have been the best father but, I would've been proud,"

Kurt's smile was gentle almost hurt. As though he had been waiting a long time for those words.

"In a way, we are linked. We share the same lot in life," He held up a fur covered arm, "The good and the bad. And, if the search persists, I would be glad to help you look, Kurt. I'm just sorry your search isn't over already,"

Kurt's white teeth added to the light from his eyes. He nodded, rubbing at his eyes again. "Ye…yeah. Yes. Yes, I would like that. Thank you." He shook his head, "You don't have to do this for me, Mr. McCoy."

"Please, call me Hank."

Kurt laughed, "Okay, uh, Hank. Here, how about this," He jerked a thumb to himself, "You help me look for my answers and, maybe, I can help you look for yours."

Hank paused. Were his concerns so obvious? Maybe he really could read him as well as he could read Kurt. Perceptive little bugger.

"All right." He smiled. "Well, why not? We can both keep looking for the real McCoy."

____________________________

Thank you so much for reading!

I got a LOT of my ideas on Hank from "Out of the Blue: Political Animal" by: Stars and Garters. Look it up here on FFN. Also, for more Beast goodness and if you speak German, I highly recommend the varied works of Bluenique who can also be located here on FFN.


End file.
